


Keeping Watch

by Galadriel



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Comfort, Drama, Frottage, Homosexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Love, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Rare Pairing, Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Content, Yuletide, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince of Denmark has passed, and Horatio still grieves. Marcellus is in love with Horatio, but is his love returned?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacklepop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacklepop/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta for a myriad of things, including simple encouragement. Set post-play, this story is told from Marcellus' POV as he examines his relationship with Horatio. Among other things, Snacklepop asked for "a hopeful fic of... hopeful hintness." I hope I've managed to deliver. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

We have not spoken of it. Indeed, we have spoken of little since my lord's lord has passed. But what remains unsaid speaks volumes, and I revel in our silences all the same.

Before this great tragedy befell us all, before Fortinbras stepped foot on our soil, before we began to drift as ghosts, my lord Horatio would gift me with his smile as often as he did all others.

"Marcellus," he would say, "come and share a cup with us," and before long we would _all_ be in our cups, fondness flowing like sweet mead, gentle touches and looks forsworn of young men somewhat older than the age at which we could be excused all our youthful indiscretions.

And oh, how I drank in those sweet touches, honey to good ale, butter to soft bread, sent home with my head a-spinning, filled with torments fit for Tantalus.

Yet every touch, every look was gifted ten times more to the worthy Prince Hamlet, and though it made my heart ache to see it, Horatio came alive in his presence.

I envied the Prince nothing and everything. I envied him rank, and opportunity, and friendship beyond means, and yet I had all these three in smaller measure. Horatio cared little that I was a mere officer, a sentry set upright against the ramparts like a child's carved soldier. Indeed, we were nearly equal in all except Hamlet's affections; he a poor schoolmate, I an honest soldier. Nor did I want for opportunity to speak with him, nor for friendship, nor brotherly love. And yet those boisterous evenings -- a mug in my hand, woodgrain under my fingers, torch-smoke filling my lungs, candles dazzling my eyes -- I wanted nothing so much as to end them in a bed not my own.

A bed I knew was as familiar to Hamlet as Horatio's hands were to his body.

Yet the Gods are fickle, and they do grant their followers' wishes in the ways that amuse them the most. I hoped not for Hamlet's demise, nor for Horatio's grief, and yet both of these have brought me the one thing I desired more than my own life.

He comes to me, now, in watches in which we both are denied sleep -- he, grieving still; I, unable to be still -- and under the cloak of ebony night, brotherly caresses become most unbrotherly acts. Tender touches turn to rough, and oh, how I revel in each scrape of callus, each catch of nail. He tangles his fingers in my hair, tugging hard until I tilt back, exposing my throat to small sharp scrapes of teeth, a laving tongue that hides the words I can feel spoken against my skin. They rumble through me, silent vibrations of a name not my own, but I hear echoes behind them that promise so much more.

And after these sweet snatches of time and breath, after my fellow officers relieve me of my derelict duties, I escape to my chambers, more and more certain in the knowledge of what -- or whom -- I will find there.

The first time, out of the darkness itself he bid me not to put tinder to light, as if only moonlight could hide the approach of sin. I could feel his eyes on me even as I waited to regain my bearings, knowing that even as I could not see him, he was cataloguing every move as I divested myself of my garments. We spoke little that eve, each moment a tangle of hesitation and motion, slick with sweat, clumsy and unsure.

I thought it all but the folly of a man looking for comfort where he could find none, and I drank deep of that night, slaking a thirst I was sure would not be quenched. Yet come the morning lark, I awoke to a bed still-warmed by his body, full-flushed by the knowledge of what had come and gone and _stayed_ settled against me.

It was the first of many nights, and I counted myself lucky for each one, ever watchful, ever wary that every encounter would be our last.

Even now, Horatio smiles little, speaks even less, but the gloom about him seems to lessen just a touch more with each passing day.

He comes to me every night I am not called to duty, and some nights I am; I return with the cock's crow, tumbling into bed only to rouse him from slumber, greeted with kisses that belie his sleep-thick voice, his fingers still-cursed by Morpheus' realm. We couple then, slow and sure, my hands relearning each curve of muscle, each scar, each perfect imperfection, shaking off his attentions to redouble my own. He is sweeter to the taste than all the best wines Daneland holds. I would sup of him and never have my fill, no matter how many ages of the world had passed. But it is never long before passion overtakes leisure; he is always the first to wrap warm hands around us both, stroking already swollen flesh to new heights. He arches against me, and I against him, his soft cries mingling with my own until it is impossible to know who speaks and who is silent. I rise above him, arms trembling with the effort to keep still, trying to preserve a moment that rushes onward, cataloguing the look of him as I have been catalogued in turn. It is a struggle to capture each moment, one I forever lose as my eyes never fail to close as he brings us both to completion, my head tilting forward until it rests against his neck.

We spend long moments that way, caught in the moment after as like flies trapped in amber. It is only when my muscles turn traitor and begin to quiver that I must move away, rolling off his body and onto the bed.

But I can feel the familiar smile tug at my lips as he never fails to curve against me, contented to stay until morning, slipping away only to rumple his own bedclothes, a pretty little trick that fools no servant but leaves no space to be called out.

We do not speak of it, for all that love of the mind, of company and care are things to revel in, _acting_ on those is not. We both know full well that to God, to country and to King, our shared sin runs deep. But oh, what a sweet sin it is, a stain I would bear forever if only I might hear my name but once upon Horatio's lips.

And laid upon soft blankets and softer pillows, his head cradled close upon my chest, I am almost convinced I can hear the ghost of my name on his breath. He speaks less of his lord as the days grow longer, and a lightness creeps in around the corners of his eyes. My heart leaps knowing the chains that bind his are loosening, and that one day soon my lord might see me as his own.

Until that day, I will stand watch, careful to match each caress with two, each kind word with a thousandfold more. I shall fill the corners he cannot yet look in with warmth and candlelight, chasing away all thoughts of ghosts, all dreams of death. I shall keep vigil as he sleeps, protecting against all things that might harm him with both my body and soul.

That day I wish for cannot now be far off. I can taste it on the wind, sharp and clear, desire and care tinged with baser lust. And until that day dawns, until I see the sun break full over my love's face, I will do my duty and keep close watch. It is only what a lowly soldier such as I can do.


End file.
